Vanishing Point

Definition: 1. : a point at which receding parallel lines seem to meet when represented in linear perspective. 2. : a point at which something disappears or ceases to exist.

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My husband bought a newish truck to replace our old one that failed to pass inspection in July, its oxidized undercarriage on the brink of collapse. So, the other day, we brought the newish truck to be treated with a rust-preventing undercoating. While we waited, we drove around town, and came upon an estate sale. The home smelled like stale air and old rugs. In the kitchen were mixing bowls, casserole dishes, and mismatched cups and plates. Costume jewelry covered the kitchen table. The dining room displayed sets of China, silver, and candlesticks. In the living room was a couch from the 70’s in a plastic slipcover. The master bedroom held an overstuffed armchair upholstered in pink velvet and closets full of outdated women’s clothing. Another bedroom was empty save Navy uniforms from WWII. The list goes on and on as what was left behind by an old lady in a house with a stairlift and a handicapped commode. Such a vivid reminder not to put my treasure in things so readily destroyed by moth and rust.

Rust reminds me of our ancient tractor which fell to its knees in June with a broken front axle. We put it back together, at least for now, so we can repair the gullies along the driveway caused by summer’s deluges.

Photo by Benjamin Lehman on Unsplash

Speaking of deluges, a day after the estate sale, we drove through a downpour on a tree-tunneled, country road to attend a memorial for a relative I’d never met, at least not in person. You see, I’m adopted, and a few years ago, in searching for my birth parents, I stumbled upon this cousin on 23andMe. When she realized I was an illegitimate part of her family, she invited me to the next family reunion, never imagining the next get-together would be caused by her own demise.

Driving to her final remembrance, the wipers swishing wildly, I peered down the narrow road toward its vanishing point on the horizon and had the odd sensation that I was driving into my own past, an alternative past that never came to fruition. Until the moment I went through the hostess’ back door, I’d had no contact with any of the people in the room who shared my bloodline. 

It was wonderful to be welcomed so warmly and wonderful to see the home where my birth mother told me she’d spent all her Christmases surrounded by the very cousins surrounding me. The home had been in the family for over fifty years and had a colonial fireplace big enough to fit Santa and his entire sleigh. Before the hearth was a table with a heaping buffet, and after I’d settled with my plate, the cousins asked for the tale of how I’d found my birth mom. They shared fascinating stories from their own lives, and following several fond eulogies for the cousin who’d passed away, the family proceeded to a New England cemetery atop a mossy hill. Subsequent to my cousin’s commitment to the ground, I wandered the faded headstones of ancient relatives. One of the older cousins pointed out the nearby tombstone of Dave Brubeck, a famous jazz musician, and together we hunted for the gravestone of Mary Travis of Peter Paul and Mary, also buried nearby. How fleeting life felt standing atop the remains of both long-gone ancestors and icons from my youth.

Photo by kyle Larivee on Unsplash

All to say, when my rusty old body fails to pass inspection, when I fall to my knees on the brink of collapse, when I’m ready for my final stairlift, I hope I leave behind more than costume jewelry and a couch preserved in plastic. I hope to leave a map of the narrow road that led me beyond my own vanishing point to an alternative future where eternal life comes to fruition for anyone who trusts God’s grace offered through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. That’s why I share these stories.

Cover photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

Copyright Ann C. Averill 2023